Children of the Dusk

by Berliner, Janet

  For a moment Franz said nothing, staring at some point beyond Bruqah. Then he shook his head. "No," he muttered.

  "Erich would never stand aside and see his command usurped," Miriam said. "He'd die before that happened."

  But she knew her assurance was a lie. In the sleeping area, the prisoners huddled in woeful-looking groupings. Even from a distance she could see that no one was speaking. They watched with forlorn expressions as the Kalanaro piled through the partly opened compound gate and, spears raised, ran through the kikuyu grass after the lemurs while the Nazis laughed and shouted catcalls as if they were at a wrestling match. In the distance, she could see Erich silhouetted in the moonlight. He sat slump-shouldered in the dirt near the sleeping-area gate, staring up at the water tower. His body spoke the language of a man who had lost everything, a man for whom the loss of power was everything.

  She stood up with difficulty.

  "We go now, Lady Miri," Bruqah put his hands on her shoulders and she was glad for the touch, glad there was someone to hold her up, "while there are lemurs still left to dance--and distract."

  The blackness lifted from the face of the moon and Miriam saw a hint of a sad smile in Bruqah's eyes. With equal sadness, she nodded. She was being forced away from Solomon once again, this time for the sake of the child. Sol would understand.

  He had always understood, she told herself. That was his greatest asset, and his greatest fault.

  "I'll go with you," Franz whispered urgently. He eyed Bruqah with temerity. "Let me stop at the medical tent for cotton bandages and some other supplies--"

  "No," Miriam said. "We will manage without you, Bruqah and I. If you are right and there is mutiny to come, you may be needed here."

  Half carrying her, Bruqah led Miriam away from the compound toward the valavato, though she couldn't say exactly how they had passed the fence without going through the gate. The walking seemed to diminish her physical pain, and she attempted to alleviate the rest by thinking about Franz. She remembered what he had told her once while folding linens:

  "I arrived at Sachsenhausen, unfortunately, only days before Hempel chose me for this assignment."

  "Unfortunately?" she'd asked.

  "I didn't have time to harden myself to the suffering, as the others did."

  She glanced back at the compound. From the rear, shaded by the ragged collar of darkness beneath the limestone knoll, the night was crisscrossed with the searchlights beamed from the three sentry towers and from the knoll's crest. A large ruffled lemur darted into the light and went tumbling as a rifle shot rang out; the Kalanaro descended upon the victim, laughter shrilling and spears pinioning it to the earth as, caught within the spotlight, the animal squirmed and spasmed in its death throes.

  Her gaze met Bruqah's.

  His face was a mask, devoid of emotion. She tried to whisper a condolence but he put a finger to his lips, his eyes so expressionless that she wondered if he were capable of feeling grief or fear at all.

  Then she realized that the mask of his face was his grief; the pain of knowing the lemurs were being killed had frozen his features. He tried to hide his feelings because that was his nature--or perhaps because he wished to protect her, in much the same way that she often tried to cover her fear with humor.

  "Bruqah..."

  A trickle of perspiration meandered down from her brow and into an eye. Though her mind, absorbed by the drama she was enacting, had not allowed the emotion to sink into her consciousness, her body responded to the fear.

  She started to moan, not so much from pain but from exhaustion, and the fear she could no longer fight. Above her she could hear the low, excited voices of the two guards on duty atop a tower. A match was struck, and for a moment an oval of harshly yellow light glared against the night sky. She held her breath when the match went out.

  Bruqah poked down the head of the mouselemur come up to inspect the world. The gesture reminded her of a young Solomon, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose in order to improve his clarity of vision. They moved up the hill under the moon-dappled overhang until they neared where the track connected to the two new roads. Bruqah looked left and right, shoulders raised and head swiveling stiffly as if he were a proper policeman in someone's colony, and then, arm also stiff, motioned her onto the path.

  "You be all right?" he asked her.

  "For a sack of potatoes that's fallen off the cart once too many times," she replied and hobbled onward.

  "I carry you now," Bruqah said.

  "I'll transport myself on my own legs, thank you, and if I fall down, you'll help me up again."

  "Woman foolish creature," Bruqah said. "Pretty soon I pick you up anyhow."

  Slowly they began the ascent up the road that led to the valavato. The further they drew from the meadow, the thicker and higher was the forest canopy. All they could see of the sky was a narrow blue-black avenue pebbled with stars, its northern edge tinged chartreuse by the moon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  "Herr Oberst!" Fermi shouted above the din. "It's the shepherds again!"

  Erich blinked against his alcoholic daze and stared out at the compound. He swore, shouldered his MP38 and, pain slicing up through his bad leg with each step, hurried as best he could toward the dog-runs, insects crunching beneath his feet. He could hear the animals barking and snapping. For the most part, the grasshoppers had stopped their descent, but they had apparently made the dogs crazy. In the moonlight, he could see the dogs tearing around, only to be yanked from their feet when they reached the end of the wires to which they were chained. Then in circles, then again the length of the wire, only to be pulled off their feet once more.

  "I don't know what's gotten into the dogs!" Fermi said.

  Other trainers were sprinting toward the yard, alternately cursing their shepherds and begging them for quiet. A knot of guards had formed at the gate. They were engaged in animated conversation, pointing toward the yard. Clusters of Jews peered around like drivers viewing an accident in the streets.

  "Get them under control!" Erich screamed as he entered the yard, but he was uncertain if his men could obey. The animals were raging. Pisces had once again wrapped his chain around his run pole. Despite her bandages, Taurus lunged with full fury toward the gate, was jerked off her feet and rolled in the dust, only to charge again, oblivious to Erich's presence. Sagittarius was desperately tugging backward against the chain, trying to rid herself of her collar.

  The others were similarly out of control but, to Erich's relief, none tried to attack the trainers. Rather, they acted as if their masters did not exist: struggling against confinement, glaring toward the gate, whining as if injured when the men snapped on choke chains. Aries' trainer had managed to muzzle his animal.

  "He's feverish, sir," Fermi said. "What's wrong with them?"

  "Who the hell knows!" Erich yelled over his shoulder as he hobbled toward Taurus, who was growling and straining at her bonds.

  "Look!" Fermi pointed toward the Zana-Malata and the Kalanaro who were, in turn, watching Otto Hempel walk toward them. Misha trotted alongside him on a leash, the wolfhound's collar around his forehead like a flapper's headdress.

  Hempel stopped and shook his fist toward the moon. A group of Kalanaro joined him. Carrying spears, they moved with feline grace across the savoka. Within the compound, guards scrambled from tents and, fumbling with web gear and grabbing Mausers, rushed to the fence and brought their rifles to their shoulders. Not a word was said. Like a pig shoot, Erich thought with a delight that surprised him. No more need to convince the guards that Hempel had overstepped. They might hesitate to shoot a fellow German, but they'd love to mow down Africans.

  Except, Erich couldn't allow it. He didn't believe Bruqah's talk about bad luck, but he could not afford to upset the Malagasy. Besides, once the shooting began there would be no stopping it, and first he had to learn where the pitchblende came from. And he would need miners. The Jews could hardly build the landing facility and m
ine the pitchblende at the same time, so he had to save the goddamn pygmies.

  For now.

  Involuntarily, he held his hand where the Zana-Malata had burned it with his African magic. Given what had happened the last time, he was loathe to let the little black men into the compound. Then again, what the hell, he thought. A man with uranium in his pocket could afford to be magnanimous.

  "Let them in, but watch them!" he yelled to the men at the gate. He wanted to tell them not to let the major in, but would they obey him? Or would he be setting himself up for another defeat?

  He petted Taurus, who strained but did not twist against his hold. A calculating growl sounded in her throat, yet she no longer seemed out of control. Erich suppressed a smile. Now she was a predator awaiting prey. When it came to stopping the Kalanaro, the dogs would turn the trick with greater spectacle than bullets--and in their wake leave survivors who might, out of fear, prove quite amenable not only to revealing the pitchblende's location but to digging it from the ground.

  With a creaking of hinges, two guards opened the entrance. Hempel entered first, followed by the Kalanaro, spears pointed outward.

  The searchlights centered on Hempel, who snapped his heels together, arm springing into the air, chin lifted, eyes like obsidian. "Seig Heil!"

  "Sieg heil!" Pleshdimer cried, stepping from behind the medical tent.

  Hempel bellowed the greeting for a third time, and the men answered, visible excitement in their mien.

  The Zana-Malata dramatically stretched out his hands. Small flames burned in his cupped palms. The men began to murmur, now and again looking toward the dog-runs. A couple patted the syphilitic on the shoulders.

  Comrades all.

  Squealing with joy and brandishing their spears, the Kalanaro darted toward the Jews, who backed abruptly from the fence.

  "Vahilo minihana! Vahilo minihana!" Hempel shouted. "Attack and eat! Attack and eat!"

  The guard at the ghetto entrance tugged up his heavy gloves and swung open the gate, only to be bowled over by an outrush of Jews. Erich saw the guard's gun fall.

  The machine gunner in the northwestern tower laid down a peppery line of fire at the prisoners' feet, and the forward surge of captives halted. The guards stepped forward, Mausers raised. For a moment Jew and German looked at each other anxiously, and then the prisoners withdrew into the ghetto, leaving the fallen gun.

  "Vahilo minihana!" Pleshdimer yelled, raising a fist.

  The guards laughed at the Jews who were racing to get under their canopy, seeking the false safety of the shadows.

  The Kalanaro did not enter the ghetto. Instead, they circled it, poking their spears between the electrified strands. Their movement sent the dogs into renewed frenzy.

  "Control the dogs!" Erich hoarsely ordered the trainers. "They're no match for the Mausers!" Fighting to keep Taurus from charging, he swung the submachine pistol off his shoulder and, the choke chain wrapped around his forearm, lay down on the grass for a clear shot.

  Trembling with excitement and fear, he zeroed in on Hempel's heart. He wondered if it might not be wiser to shoot the Zana-Malata, standing with his palm-cupped flames raised like some committeeman welcoming home a household of prodigals.

  No, he decided. There was much greater purpose and pleasure in killing Hempel.

  "Watch me bring the house down!" a guard loudly bragged, sighting toward the canopy. "See the guy ropes?"

  The question momentarily shifted Erich's attention to the ghetto, and what he saw made him lift his cheek from against the gun's cool metal.

  Stepping from beneath the canvas, Solomon Freund walked toward a leaping, howling Kalanaro on the other side of the fence.

  The African poked at him with a spear from between the wire, but Solomon was out of reach. The Kalanaro withdrew the weapon and hissed, showing his teeth like a baboon, then danced back as Solomon kept coming toward him.

  Other prisoners emerged from the shadows, but stayed well out of range of the spears, watching silently as the whitely pulsing African again pranced toward Solomon, feinting, jabbing, shrieking his torment.

  The other Kalanaro, apparently sensing a drama developing, drew back. Stamping their feet and spear hafts against the ground, they hooted in derision at their comrade. The guards joined in, pointing and laughing.

  When the one at the wire again tentatively stuck his spear between the strands, hesitant to draw closer to the lethal fence, two others rushed toward the wire, spears uplifted and faces contorted, only to retreat as quickly and burst into renewed mirth.

  The Kalanaro lunged.

  With an athleticism Erich would have thought impossible, Solomon dodged the speartip and grabbed the haft. The Kalanaro tried pulling back, but Solomon clung on and, for a moment, despite the wire between them, Jew and African were pitted like two children playing tug-of-war. The guards and the other Kalanaro roared with delight.

  The spearman looked around. His grin remained, but his eyes filled with desperation, making everyone laugh the louder at his predicament.

  Erich sighted on Solomon's tormentor. He knew that killing the pygmy would give Hempel an instant to react, but Solomon was one Jew who would not be destroyed unless he, Erich, said so.

  They were his Jews.

  Right! And this one fucked my wife, he thought.

  His finger tightened on the trigger and he swung the barrel from the Kalanaro to Solomon. He was suddenly stone cold sober.

  He fucked my wife, he thought again. Not only that, but she loves the son of a bitch.

  Normally an expert and steady marksman, even when drunk, he was trembling. He imagined Miriam arched like a bow, face distorted with passion.

  The barrel wavered. He fought to control his aim.

  Trying to downthrust, the Kalanaro leaped onto the fence as Solomon let go of the spear.

  Sparks jumped from the African's hair, hands, and feet as he hung twitching and spasming, eyes rolled up and head jerking. The acrid odor of burnt flesh mingled with the compound's other scents. With a loud pop, the cable from the generator to the fence exploded. The African's body dropped from the fence and lay tremoring. Erich swung the barrel back toward Hempel, only to find guards standing in the line of fire. Silently cursing his lapse of concentration, he forced himself to relax. And wait.

  The camp fell silent. The dogs quieted, noses lifted and sniffing the unfamiliar scent of burnt flesh and hair. As the guards and other Kalanaro approached the body, Sol's face took on a look of disgust mixed with pity. He shook his head once, then turned and walked beneath the canopy.

  One of the Africans stooped, ran a finger along a smoldering burn on the body, looked up--and grinned. "Minihana!" Light laughter rippled among the guards. Like a master of ceremonies, the black man responded to his audience. "Minihana! Minihana!" He looked up again, showing filed teeth as his grin widened. He leapt like a monkey around the body, motioning for the others to do the same. They finally did so, dancing and jumping, racing to the fence and prodding it with their spears as if to re-enact the event.

  The Zana-Malata laughed, apparently much amused. Dousing his flames, he padded over to stand near the dead man's head. Hempel joined him, Mann pointed carelessly at the ground. The guards gathered behind him. Like Hitler Youth around a campfire, Erich thought with contempt.

  In what appeared to be a benign moment, Hempel bent down and released Misha. The boy sat there, apparently not knowing quite what it was he was supposed to do. Hempel nudged him with his foot and Misha scampered away, out of Erich's line of sight.

  More fortunately, Erich thought, out of the line of fire.

  He turned to the trainers.

  "Zodiac," he said softly.

  "Sir?" Fermi had to tug his pawing dog sideways to get close enough to hear.

  "Zodiac," Erich repeated, suddenly relieved that he had not executed Hempel...yet. He would send the dogs in; Zodiac was not only their best, and favorite, attack formation, it involved the trainers more than any other maneuve
r. Unless all the trainers were part of his putdown of Hempel's insubordination, killing the major might prove meaningless. Life after Hempel would never run smoothly as long as the Totenkopfverbände were in the majority, and to rectify that would require all the help he could get.

  "Against our own, sir?"

  "You call that rabble your own?" Erich eyed each trainer in turn, trying to draw them one by one back into his emotional camp.

  "Killing the monkeys is one thing," Holten-Pflug whispered. "But other Germans..."

  Erich knew that he could order the trainers to do his will and they almost certainly would comply, but he needed more than that. He needed to be sure of their loyalty.

  "You all know that Müller's dead," he said quickly. "The guards killed him, and they're planning the same for the rest of us. Don't you know what's been going on in that goddamned hut over there?"

  Though his mouth was open, he stopped speaking. The men would never believe the truth even if he could explain it. He put a hand on Taurus to calm his frustration. When she looked back at him, straining and whining for the kill, he knew what he must say.

  "I have known for some time that Sturmbannführer Hempel is a proven collaborator. During the Great War, he collaborated with the Senegalese."

  The lie contained enough truth to be believable. The African blacks had been among France's fiercest fighters. After the war, the French had looked the other way when the Senegalese, and doubtless others, raped German girls in the Saar, the region both countries claimed. Hempel had, as the trainers knew, been drummed from the army under mysterious circumstances. Perhaps there was a connection....

  The trainers' gazes flicked toward the major, and Erich saw that he had touched a nerve. "Goebbels found out the whole truth about Hempel's past a few months ago, and now Berlin wants Hempel forgotten. That's why we were all sent here...to be forgotten."

  Anger, shock and despair registered on the trainers' faces.

  "Now Hempel's collaborating with French Africans. You know what a pervert he is. He'll kill you and let his little black boyfriends feast on your shepherds."